


There is a Light That Never Goes Out

by afogocado



Category: Doctor Sleep (2019), Doctor Sleep - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Reader is also a recovered alcoholic, Slow Burn, dfab!reader, mentions of smoking, vague mentions of past sexual abuse of reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24223870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: In which Reader runs Frazier’s local bookstore following her aunt’s death, and a bearded stranger comes to town. She can't ignore the weird magnetism that hums in their chests and speaks to one another.
Relationships: Dan "Danny" Torrance & Billy Freeman, Dan "Danny" Torrance/Reader, Dan "Danny" Torrance/You, Reader & Billy Freeman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Random Housekeeping:   
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: vague mentions of reader having a sexually abusive past. I’ve been writing this story as part of a therapy assignment to deal with my own traumas, and sort of projected onto it in this way.   
> Disclaimers: I don’t own ‘Doctor Sleep’, or any other Stephen King thing, nor the title (taken from The Smiths). The brackets are a thing that Stephen King does in his writing to indicate a character’s asides, and I’ve implemented them here.

1

The first time you meet, he asks if he can use your bathroom. Though not for public use, you let him go back there without having to buy anything. You saw him get off the bus earlier when you were taking a break and absentmindedly staring out the front window. Since your aunt had passed, you were now the sole employee and proprietor of Frazier’s only bookstore. The nearest was a Barnes and Noble in city over—several miles away.

The overhead bell jingles and tells you the stranger’s arrived after wandering around the square. He bushes his (literally) dirty blonde hair from his weathered forehead and you cant stop yourself from staring at his bruised and cut eye. He catches you looking, and you try to busy yourself with a loose pile of bookmarks.

“Do you have a rest room I may use?” He asks this, very quietly, you almost can’t hear him over the music playing in the background.

You acknowledge him and his question, and catch his glassy eyes. You hold his gaze for a long time and almost forget what he asked (did he ask anything at all), until you hear a quiet, “I should leave. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

You’re not sure if you made it up, or if he really said it. But his mouth is so well hid by his (literally) dirty blonde beard.

“You don’t need to leave,” you tell him, coming out from behind the front check-out desk.

He looks slightly taken aback—maybe even a little affronted, as he steps backwards and away from you—and you think its because he’s expecting you to really kick him out, like most shops do.

“I’ll show you where it is.”

He follows you through the overstuffed shelves sagging under the weight of used paperbacks. His blue duffle bag knocks against one of the corners sticking out and a beat up copy of Moby Dick falls to the ground with a soft thud that breaks the silence between the two of you. He stoops and picks it up, pressing it into your hands, towering over you, brilliant blue eyes piercing into yours. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back.

“Sorry,” its again uttered quietly, and you’re not sure—again—whether he said it aloud or if you are just hearing things; imagining things.

“Its through here,” you point at a door down the darkened hall—its nondescript and could be unclear to anyone else that the door leads to anything else but a restroom.

He nods deftly and disappears behind the door. You hear it lock before shuffling back to the store front; you don’t want him to think you’re spying on him, or that you find him untrustworthy due to his appearance. You’re sure he’s had enough of that to last the rest of his lifetime. Especially seeing the ghosts behind his eyes.

You slide up on the tall stool once more and kick the back of your tennis shoes on one of the rungs in time to the light radio music playing from the too-dusty speakers above head.

You look at the handwritten $2.50 sticker on the top left corner of Moby Dick’s cover. You place the book near the now-meticulously stacked bookmarks. You’d shelve the book later, and know you’ll snort at yourself for thinking that there was any level of organization to do with the ‘used’ shelves—there was no method; only madness. Your own white whale, so to speak.

You fiddle with the ink pens kept in an old political mug: SHERIFF ALAN PANGBORN FOR CASTLE ROCK MAYOR. The mug

[was]

is something your aunt treasured: the name, an old friend from your aunt’s small hometown—a place and person you don’t remember much. Sheriff Alan never became mayor, but your aunt loved him (difficultly and in her own hard way) and never got rid of the mug.

“Obviously,” you mutter, plucking a fountain pen out, and slide a bookmark toward yourself. You flip it over, and begin doodling idly. Hy the time you fill up the entire blank space, the stranger still hasn’t emerged from the rest room.

You’re not sure how much time had passed—why would you time him?—but it feels longer than necessary to the point you’re worried

[he’s overdosed]

something may have happened to him. You go to stand, and then you hear the bathroom door open, and he sees you across the room half standing, half sitting. You sit back down and he comes up to the desk, which surprises you because you expected him to give you an embarrassed smile and hit the road.

Instead, he comes up (face obviously washed, and somewhat more groomed), and says, “I’d like to buy the book I knocked over.” He’s timid and nervous, like a wary alertness an old fox would have close to the end of its life.

Your stomach pulls in a wave of embarrassment. You don’t want to take anything from a man who doesn’t seem to have much at all. “Oh, you don’t have to do that; we don’t have a ‘you break it, you bought it’ policy. Not that you broke anything. I mean—”

His light chuckle and crinkled eyes stop you from babbling, and you’re too stuck in his gaze that you hear, “No, I’d like to buy it; I don’t have anything to read,” without being sure he said it. And the way he pronounces ‘anything’ is different and distracting, that you stop caring how you heard his words.

You go to reach for the book at the same time, to claim it in your own ways you think, and your fingertips almost touch. He relents when you pull the tome back to yourself. You fondly turn it over this way and that in your hands: it was the first copy of this story you ever received. You don’t even remember who gave it to you—it was just in your life one day, and you give it a small smile while scratching the years-old price tag off. You hand it over to him, and he receives it gingerly, almost understanding the weight of importance bore into the pages.

“How much do I owe you?” He goes digging through his pants pockets.

“Nothing.”

“I can’t—”

You don’t want to keep up this round of politeness badminton, “Think of it as a ‘Welcome to Frazier’ gift.”

But when you hand it to him, his fingers graze yours from under the book, and your eyes lock once more. Quick images, sounds, gut wrenching sadness. A familiar man coming into your room at night before you were old enough to start menstruating, or even second grade. Losing yourself in books you were too young for—most of the titles sold from that very same shelf, or lingering, this one of them. You, older, leaving hardly dressed in the middle of the night, stumbling from a bus and into this shop begging your aunt for work and a room.

The stranger’s eyes dance and shine bright in yours, no longer glassy, but alert. And that voice again, “You’re okay.”

You let go of the book, not sure you ever held anything in these numb fingers at all, and you see his thumb brush the cover, close to Queequeg’s harpoon.

He looks down at the book, then back at you. He bats the book at you in a light tilt, “That’s very kind of you,” and you like the way his eyebrows emphasize certain words when you can’t tell how they’re formed in and around his phantom mouth.

“Its just an old book is all.” You look at him for a very long time, until his gaze drops to the bookmark you drew and wrote all over: meaningless scribbles (something that looked like a lion), random letters (consonants, a continuous cursive ‘m’), random numbers (2, 1, and 7 crammed into random crevices). He looks at the bookmark for a very long time, and you almost tell him that they’re for free with the purchase of a book or something else in the store (well, bookmarks not written on, that is), but instead you both look up at one another and ask at the same time,

“Who are you?”

He tucks the book in his bag without breaking eye contact (the glassy and scared look is back almost immediately) and tells you that his name is Dan Torrance, and you tell him yours.

“Thank you for that kindness,” comes out in a waver. A finality to it.

“I’m glad to have given it.”

“I can really pay you—” the curtness hits you in the chest, sounding like he wants to cut off all ties to this strange new

[imprinting]

[relationship]

meeting. But what comes next shakes you to where you have to hold yourself, “You’ve had this for a very long time. An old…”

[ghost]

“…friend.”

Something about that made your chest feel cold because you knew: he saw the memories tied to this book, too.

He furrows his brow, hard. “I’ll bring it back. And maybe you’ll be able to put it back on your apartment shelf.”

“How about you bring it back when you’re done, and exchange it for something else?” You offer this compromise, just to make you both feel better. Just so you can get rid of this book once and for all, and maybe him, too. He’s probably riding his thumb, anyway! You hoped Ishmael and the rest would keep him company and help him feel less lonely like they did for you all those years ago.

“I will,” he promises.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Reader's friendship with Billy; they all attend Danny's first meeting; and Reader invites Danny to dinner.

\--

2

“Someone actually came in today,” you say to Billy after your usual dinner together. Billy’s helped you a long time ago—gave your life back, really, and there wasn’t any other way you could think to repay him except for taking care of him in domestic ways like this.

“Oooh, la la look at you,” Billy grins down at you and takes the plate from your soapy hands, dries it, puts it away. “Are you Oprah rich yet?”

“Absolutely, and I’m moving away to live in my new mansion tomorrow. This is my last night washing your dishes, too.”

Billy elbows you playfully and you concede, “I got rid of a used book, but didn’t make any money.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Guy came in, and I felt kinda bad for him so I let him have it. Well, I told him he could _borrow_ it and exchange it for something later. Doubt I’ll see him again, though,” you shrug, rinsing out the sink and washing your hand after. Billy offers you a fresh towel to dry off with.

His brow is furrowed, but in interest and he crosses his arms over his chest. “What guy?”

You shrug again, draping the towel over the stove’s handle to air dry and watch Billy grab two mugs from the cupboard overhead. “You know…just one of those guys riding the bus.”

Billy stops pouring your after-dinner coffee, and his interest shines. “Guy named Torrance?”

Your brow furrows this time. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “How did you know?” And there’s again the cold tug in your chest, and an echo of ‘ _You’re okay’_ in the stranger’s voice, in the most calming way. You feel more relaxed and thank Billy for the coffee mug he offers to you after he finishes pouring.

“I met Danno this afternoon. At Teeny Town. Must’ve been right after he left your shop. He was checking the train out.”

“He’s just passing through, right?”

“Actually, he’s living upstairs—that math kid’s old room.”

You squint your eyes. “The one with the weird chalkboard?”

Billy points at you and gives a thumbs up while he sips from his coffee—it is hot and good.

“Good feeling about him?” You ask, letting your mug warm your palms, and lean your back against the sink.

“Yeah. You?” His smile is true, and he leans with you, nudging at your arm with his elbow.

“Yeah. Think it’ll last?”

“I think you’ll be seeing him in your shop again.”

You give him a thumbs up while sipping your coffee.

3

It’s the usual Sunday meeting, a discussion rather than having a speaker, and sometimes these ones are easier to handle when nervous—most will speak, and you can listen instead of worrying about putting yourself out there. When Billy texted you that morning to ask you to save an extra chair (you always show up early, chain smoking on the steps out front until going in to make the coffee), you had some niggling thought in the back of your head that told you it would be for the stranger and literal newcomer.

And sure enough, when Billy sits down to your right, Dan Torrance is at Billy’s right, and the end of your shared arch in the circle of chairs filled with familiar faces.

Dan leans forward, and offers you a small, closed off smile. You remember doing something similar to other faces when it was your first time in the room. You’d been more interested in your hands, wringing them furiously in your lap, itching to escape just for a few minutes. And maybe if there were just a few more minutes after everyone’s shared and the chairperson asks if any newcomers would like to share, you may share or introduce yourself. But you didn’t. It took a couple of weeks into your sobriety before you could find the courage to share. So you’re surprised when Dan stands to share when the call is made, shuffling nervously in his jeans and olive-colored sweater. He shoves his hands deep in the front pockets and squares his shoulders slightly. Everyone looks at him and he doesn’t falter.

“Uh. Dan. Alcoholic.” His voice is soft, like the one in the back of your head that’s reassured you a few times now.

Everyone says hello, and he runs a trembling hand through his sandy colored hair and gives a smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes—it just rearranges his face for a bit before he sits down again. Doctor John asks if anyone has anything to say, and you do. You tell Dan that you speak for everyone when you say you’re all glad to have him here, and tell him to ask for numbers if he needs them. And you tell him to come back, just like any newcomer. This time, his smile does reach his eyes.

The three of you walk back to the boarding house together, and you think you and Billy are dropping Dan off so Billy can walk you home like always.

“I don’t have to go the rest of the way with you guys if you don’t want me to,” he kind of stammers out in his quiet way. “You like to talk this part of the walk.”

You and Billy look at each other immediately, and in your periphery you can tell Dan sees this. He backpedals quickly, “I – I mean that, it just seems you’d have a routine…after. Like…to debrief.”

You nod in a way to show that you accept this answer. But Dan’s cerulean gaze holds yours in the dimming twilight and street lights for too long, and you feel like he can read you in ways that only exist in films or books.

“You can come with us, Danno,” Billy says carefully. “We’re just going to pick up a few kitchen essentials that mine still seems to lack.”

“If you want,” you offer. He’s timid, you don’t want to make him more nervous.

He considers it, then shakes his head. “I’m going to call it a night. I’m really into a book right now.” And the small smile he offers this time really does reach his eyes.

“Well,” Billy says, “we usually come up to my place after the Sunday meetings to have dinner. If you want, you can catch us another time.”

You nod, perhaps a bit too quickly, “Do you want me to send this one up with something?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Just say yes, Danny,” you sigh, and he gives another bright eyed smile at you.

He looks at you very curiously, and says a quiet ‘yes’.

4

“Probably thinks you were scarin’ him off.” Billy says once he returns from his bathroom.

“Billy Freeman, why would you think that’s my style at all?” You press the ventilation button on the microwave over the stove on to get some of the smoke sucked out. 

Billy leans to the side and flips the kitchen’s overhead fan on. He’s on stand by with a glass of water to throw in the skillet when you ask him to. “I _know_ you,” he says. “And I know how you are with strange men—I got the scars to prove it.”

“Please, Billy: no longer strange, but still a weirdo.”

“Gotta be my authentic self, you know me.”

You stir the vegetables around. “Yeah, yeah.” You bite your lip and set the timer. “Do you think you can keep an eye on the stove?”

“Can’t stand the thought of Danno being up there all alone, huh?”

“What do I care about strange men?” You ask, moving to leave his apartment, eyes wide and innocent.

Billy shoos you away after taking the spatula from where it rested.

What do you care about strange men?

It turns out, quite a bit.

The steps seem to grow taller and the door further away the closer you get to the top-most landing. And your knock is timid.

Dan answers the door almost immediately, eyes wide with alertness and if not a little bloodshot like he’d been

[drinking]

crying. He’s shed his sweater and is now only in a simple t-shirt and jeans. The sleeves are all but screaming around his biceps and you see every muscle work when he moves to wipe his face with the back of his hand. Like he’s calming down from a scare. Or a gut-wrenching tremor.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” you blurt out before either of you can say hello again.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t…wasn’t busy.” His stammer is endearing, you decided right then and there.

You see a flash of ‘Moby Dick’ in his other hand, closed around a finger keeping his place, and there’s a slight tremor in his hand.

“I just wanted to invite you to dinner again. We’re just downstairs. It doesn’t feel right to not have you with us.”

“It’s really okay, I’ve already eaten.” But you hear his stomach growl at this obvious lie, and you see his flush despite most of it hiding behind his beard.

Ignoring his stomach and embarrassment, you say, “Then you can join us for company. And if you get hungry, you can have some stir fry.”

He shuffles around nervously.

“Queequeg and the rest will be there for you later.” You smile, and he’s watching you again in that curious way. “Just say yes…Danny.”

And his brightest smile yet, and a steady, “Yes. Okay.”

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'd love feedback to see what works/doesn't. I've not published fic in so long.


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